


Your Mess Matches My Mess

by dabblingwithwords



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics), Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Drinking, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, GUYS, Hurt/Comfort, I'm living, IN AGE APPROPRIATE HEAVEN, Implied Suicidal Thinking, Kissing, M/M, Peter B Parker is the ultimate Peter, Pining, They're gonna bone just not here, and so is Wade, he's the biggest fucking mess, he's what we all deserve, i love him so much, mentions of blowjobs, so guess whats a match in HEAVEN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 17:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17349659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabblingwithwords/pseuds/dabblingwithwords
Summary: Peter B Parker returns back to his dimension.Turns out, he's still a mess, just a mess with a merc as a best friend.





	Your Mess Matches My Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Into the Spider-Verse. But if you haven't seen this movie by now idk what to tell ya, something is going wrong in your life.

Okay. Let’s try this one, final, hopefully shorter–time.

 

This guy standing on a roof in sweats and two different shoes is Peter B Parker. After he got back from being blasted into another dimension where he met a kid, met more people, almost died, didn’t, fell back, got some flowers, got a suit, took a shower, tried to make amends and start clean with his ex-wife who somehow looked better than ever, (failed), she didn’t take him back, said they could be friends, he doesn’t blame her except–

“Who would even want to be friends with me?” Peter sighs, taking one last swig from the dregs of his beer. 

He lets the bottle clatter to the roof to join the other seven at his feet. He reaches for the other pack, cracks another, and gets right to it. 

If he had known that he’d still be just as much as a fuck up in this universe than Miles’ he would’ve just stayed. And yeah, it’d probably hurt like hell to feel his body literally _disintegrate_ , but it couldn’t be worse than how he’s feeling now, right?

“Ya know, if you’re gonna disappear for three days to go on a drinking binge the least you could do is extend the invitation,” a rough familiar voice calls from behind Peter’s back and Peter knows, without turning, _exactly_ who it is. 

The fact that his old ass spider sense didn’t alert him is proof enough. 

“Wade,” Peter sighs around the glass lip of the bottle, “not now. I already have a migraine.” 

Deadpool sidles up into Peter’s peripheral, and Peter can already feel the judgment radiating off the merc without him saying anything. 

“Stop staring at me,” Peter mutters and takes another looonnggggg pull. 

He should’ve bought vodka. Just knock himself out. 

“Sorry Webs, but if you want me to stop staring stop deep throating that bottle,” Wade shrugs, sitting down without any finesse on the edge of the building and patting the empty spot next to him. 

Peter walks over, dragging his body feels like all his energy, before he sits beside Deadpool only to have the guy reach out and steady him as he sways. Okay. Maybe he’s a little drunk. 

“Dude,” Wade whispers, leaning in, “you look rougher than usual. Did you do acid?”

“No, Wade, I didn’t _trip_ trip,” Peter says, itching the back of his mask and feeling really tempted to just rip the damn thing off. 

It’s hot and bothering him, and Wade’s known who he is for a long time now. He moves to do just that but Wade’s hand on his wrist stops him enough for Peter to make eye contact. Even Wade’s mask looks disappointed. But maybe that’s because of the chalk eyebrows the merc apparently thought would be fun to draw on. 

“Are you trying to be 60s Adam West right now?” Peter asks, only a little amused but still mostly sad, “You look like an idiot.” 

“You look like you got run over by seven garbage trucks,” Wade shoots back, and, with a white stick of chalk, tries to redraw one of the eyebrows so its raised.

It doesn’t work. 

But, stupid enough, it does make Peter smile. 

“Why so glum, Webs?” Wade pushes, only letting go of Peter’s wrist when it’s clear he isn’t going to try and drunkenly remove his mask on a roof in the middle of New York City. 

At 11:00am. 

“So. You know inter-dimensional warping.”

“Never fun.”

“Nope. Never fun. Except maybe this time wasn’t so bad? Met Miles Morales, the Spider-man of that universe ‘cause I died. I got to attend my own memorial service, big turn out, you would’ve loved it.” 

Peter’s trying for humor but it falls flat if Wade doesn’t even laugh. Peter’s always taken aback when the merc gets serious, but he supposes this is a little serious. 

“Anyway, met a bunch of other spider people. Thought you were making up all the Deadpool’s but _now_ I believe you–”

“You should always believe me, I’m a pillar of truth,” Wade grins and grabs one of Peter’s beers before opening it with his teeth. 

Wow, okay, show-off. 

“Yeah, so I met them. Met the kid. Realized maybe I want kids? Thought that wanting that could patch things up with MJ. Realized there were a bunch of other reasons she filed for divorce, not just me not being ready for children. Turns out, Wade, I’m lazy, unmotivated, reckless with finances, messy, can be really selfish–“

“Whoa, whoa, hey. You’re talking about my best bud, Webs, don’t make me fight you,” Wade interrupts, finishing the beer in one large gulp and tossing it over the side of the roof. 

Peter webs it into the trash below without looking. He can hear it shatter and someone’s, “what the fuck?” Maybe he missed.

“So you’re moping,” Wade says, “that’s what you’re doing! You’re pitying yourself.”

“I’m depressed, Wade,” Peter sighs. “And, yes, moping. They go hand in hand.” 

“Let me get something straight,” Wade shifts precariously on the edge and Peter has half a mind to let him fall, “you saved a kid. Fixed a collider (it's always a collider), fought some baddies, didn’t die like the other version of you did, saved New York, came back safe, and tried to get your life back together. Where the fuck in there is that you being lazy, selfish, or unmotivated?” 

Peter just stares. 

He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. 

“Wow,” he whispers, clears his throat, “still bad with money.”

“Who the hell isn’t?” Wade shoots back. 

“Should probably work out.”

“Yeah, if you like diet culture.”

“I _am_ reckless,” Peter pushes.

“Webs, Spider-Daddy, listen,” Wade rolls back down the bottom of his mask and stands, leaning over Peter so that they’re face to face, “why do you think I love ya?” 

It never fails to make Peter’s heart stutter, when Wade says that. 

Stutter, and break a little, because he remembers Wade admitting his feelings for him fifteen years ago, when Peter was young and naïve, before he broke his back and took one too many hits. He thought, after he refused him, that Wade would back away, wouldn’t admit it again, and would pretend it never happened.

Wade didn’t do that. 

He was never pressuring, or pushy, or forceful. If Peter told him to shut up he did, and then walked off the building. But Wade was never quiet about his feelings toward Peter, so much so that if Peter spent too much time with the merc MJ would start to get anxious. 

Wade Wilson was never ashamed to love Peter B Parker. 

Peter doesn’t know when his heart starting kicking whenever Wade would tell him. Even a casual, “love ya” made him feel weird. 

Good weird. 

Sexuality crisis weird. 

“You love me because I’m reckless?” Peter clarifies, because he’s an idiot and emotional vulnerability scares him. “What if I wasn’t reckless? What if I played by the books, never cursed, always cleaned up after myself, always–”

“Want to know how many versions I’ve met of you, Pete?” Wade whispers, his voice barely audible. 

Peter blames all his body’s emotional reactions right now on the beer. The cheap beer. 

“I dunno,” Peter whispers back, “three?” 

“Over two hundred,” Wade says, “guess how many are pencil pushers and guess who still loves them?” 

Peter’s heart fucking stops. 

He’s too old for this. 

“How many versions of me loved you back?” Peter asks because now he _has_ to know. 

Wade’s shoulders slump, the slightest rounded edge, and if Peter didn’t know Wade so well he wouldn’t have seen it. 

It’s the motion Wade carries when he’s defeated. 

“Maybe five,” Wade answers, clearing his throat and trying to fake chipper back into his tone, “but I can’t blame ya, Webs, I mean, you think _you’re_ a mess? You know how fucking horrible the other me’s are? I swear, I’ve tried to kill _all of them_ –”

“Six,” Peter interrupts and Wade freezes, every muscle in his body pulling tight. 

Peter wishes, he really wishes, he had a brain to mouth filter. 

“What?” Wade asks and his voice cracks.

And that kind of breaks Peter’s struggling heart. He pushes himself up to stand too, his back only cracking a little, and braces himself like he does for a fight. Wade is only two inches taller, but right now it seems significant. 

“Six,” Peter repeats, and slowly, so Wade has the option to pull back, reaches for the bottom of the merc’s mask. 

“Hey, hey, you don’t gotta do this, Webs, this–“ Wade begins but cuts himself off when the mask is rolled just above his nose. 

Peter doesn’t know what he’s doing. Something reckless that Wade will hopefully be proud of, he’s sure. 

“I know I don’t gotta do anything, man,” Peter says, and takes a half step forward so that their bodies are almost touching, Deadpool’s rough belt poking into his stomach, “but I’m kinda not thinking and just doing what feels right, and I thought that saying “six” was a cool way to be like, hey now, you’re wrong, _six_ Spider-Men love you, not fi–”

“You’re drunk,” Wade interrupts, but doesn’t step back. 

Peter leans forward.

“A little tipsy,” he says. 

“You’re grieving,” Wade tries. 

“’Cause I’m a fuck up, not ‘cause of MJ,” Peter answers, taking a deep breath because Wade deserves this honesty right now, “I’ve been grieving MJ for the past three years Wade. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t know what to do without that. Maybe it’s interesting, or kinda funny–”

“Probably sad,” Wade interjects, voice weak. 

Peter’s never seen him so nervous. It makes him feel protective. He reaches out a hand, and holds Deadpool’s, their fingers intertwining, almost shy. 

“A little sad,” Peter agrees, suddenly a little distracted by the thought that his breath probably smells like cheap beer and that maybe he should’ve left Deadpool’s mask over his nose, “but I don’t feel like that with you. With you, I _can_ be myself. I can be a mess. I can be reckless. I can be fucking dumb with my money because hey buddy, you invested in that restaurant too, remember?” 

“Baby, I _started_ that restaurant,” Deadpool returns, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh yeah, you owe me two thousand–”

Wade kisses him. 

It’s probably to shut him up. It’s most definitely to distract him. And it’s working. Really, _really_ well. 

It’s not weird. It doesn’t feel like it’s wrong, or strange. It’s different than MJ, for sure, because Wade’s skin is rough and scarred, and he’s all hard lines where MJ was soft. But it’s not bad. 

If anything; it’s helping, because Peter doesn’t feel the sharp pang of sadness he feels when people remind him of MJ. Wade is so far removed from her, so different in every aspect, that Peter doesn’t feel like he’s fucking something up right now. 

He doesn’t feel guilty, or depressed, or what did Wade so generously say? Mopey. 

And MJ couldn’t do _that_ with her tongue. 

Peter pulls back before PG-13 gets R on a public rooftop in broad daylight. Wade seems just as dazed as Peter feels. 

“Sorry,” Peter says immediately, “if my stubble hurt your skin, I haven’t shaved in like a week, but if it’s uncomfortable for you I _can_ , I can go to CVS or something and buy one of those shitty–”

“I liked it,” Wade interrupts, and frames Peter’s face in his hands. 

He holds him so gently; Peter would think he’s made of something precious. It makes his chest tight. 

“They said I got fat,” Peter blurts. 

Wade blinks.

“What?”

“Everyone in the other universe. They–”

“Body shamed you? Fat shamed? Made your weight into a joke? Want me to kill them?” Wade asks, rapid fire, one of his hands already leaving Peter’s face to reach for his katana. 

Wade’s reaction makes any insecurity Peter was holding seem that much more insignificant. 

“I’d really like to make out,” Peter says, and that gets Wade’s attention again, “preferably somewhere I can also give you a blow job.” 

Wade’s mouth _drops_. 

Peter thinks he might have broke him. 

“Damn, how could anyone let you go?” Wade whispers, awed, his teeth flashing with his smile. 

“I’m a charmer,” Peter shrugs, and shoots out a web, holding out an arm, “lets go, ‘Pool.” 

They swing, the wind cutting through their suits, but Wade on Peter’s back is warmth enough. 

“Wait,” Peter asks as they swing over a Chipotle, “when did you meet _two hundred_ of me?”

**Author's Note:**

> hey all! happy new year! just a short something to get me back into writing! nothing like some real life issues to get the angst energy flowing and that creative energy sparking. hate how they go hand in hand. 
> 
> anyway, hope you liked. planning to upload the third chapter of "we're getting better at driving" this week, so keep an eye out.


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